


Being Loved

by misscam



Category: Nikita (TV 2010)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-13
Updated: 2011-11-13
Packaged: 2017-10-26 01:10:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/276895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misscam/pseuds/misscam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nikita has always been able to love. Being loved – now that's another idea to get used to. [Michael/Nikita]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Being Loved

**Author's Note:**

> Set after 2x07.

Being Loved  
by misscam

Disclaimer: Not my characters, just my words.

II

Nikita has always been able to love. The family she never knew but loved by virtue of being hers nevertheless. Her best friend until change of foster parents split them up. The one teacher that reached out to her, even if it was too late. Michael and the way he would look at her. Daniel. Alex. Michael again.

She loves as easily as she breathes, caring even for those who may have hurt her. Owen. Michael.

That's the thing, really. Nikita has always been able to love. Being loved – now that's another idea to get used to.

II

"You have no idea how much you mean to me, Nikita," Michael says, and Nikita looks at him almost as if he's speaking another language and she's just found the translation. As if it's all new to her, and she takes one step closer. "No idea. You ever pull a stunt like that again, we're through."

He walks off, unable to look at her expression any more. Nikita. Always so ready to sacrifice herself for others, to take all the pain, to make all the choices. Not thinking, just doing, always thinking with her emotions. Even as an agent, she displayed the same tendency. He thought he had tempered it.

Obviously he was wrong. He can't lose her. He's had that sort of loss once, and it all but killed him. He can't... He almost lost her today. He can't. He _can't_.

"Michael," she says behind him, her steps so very loud in the room as she walks closer; he doesn't turn around. "Michael, I..."

"How can you have no idea?" he asks, closing his eyes briefly. She is silent for a moment, and he can almost imagine her trying to find the words to fix everything, as she always wants to. "How can you not know?"

"How would I know, Michael?" she says a touch angrily.

"How?" He turns around sharply. "You were the only thing to make me feel something like alive down there and everyone knew it. Percy knew. Amanda knew. Birkhoff knew. Even Alex picked up on it. How can you not know?"

She looks at him as he walks closer, her eyes dark and her expression so very still.

"You stayed in Division," she points out quietly, anger just below the surface of her voice, as if that is not what she is angry about. Revenge, that she does know.

"I stayed in Division until I learned the truth," he counters. "Then I came straight to you. I've been with you ever since. I'm still here."

"Are you?" she asks. "A part of your heart is in London already. He's your son, Michael."

"That doesn't change what you are," he says, and she looks at him as if she can't quite trust it. Nikita. Still no idea. Still... So very damn Nikita, so damn caring, never expecting the same back. He loves her. He does. She can also drive him mad like no other – maybe because of said fact.

"Damn you," he says hoarsely, putting his arm on her hips, pulling her in and kissing her almost harshly. A breath, and she is kissing him back with equal fervour, if not more. Still fight in her, he thinks distantly, lifting her up. Still fight in them. Just with new weapons, new stakes and all heart.

Her fingers dig into his shoulder a little as she locks her legs around him, her nose bumping into his as she tilts her head to change the angle of the kiss. He makes a slight impatient noise into her mouth as his fingers keep brushing leather and cloth rather than skin; she echoes it as she runs her fingers through his hair.

She clings to him as he carries her across the room, not breaking the kiss even when he stumbles a little, merely biting down a little on his lower lip. Her fingers are working on the zipper of his jacket, and as he begins to ease her down on the floor by the bed, she slides her legs down the side of his and the jacket off his shoulders in one move, shedding her own vest in the next second. Good. He feels impatient and clumsy at the same time, fumbling his jeans and underwear off, every second feeling a second too long before it's just skin and them.

Maybe it's need. Or maybe rush, he isn't sure. Whatever this is, he can't remember feeling something quite like it since their first time, most times after being leisurely explorations and pleasure, taking their time since time had taken so much from them. Even after Columbia, the rush was all her and he wanted to savour, she to reassurance.

He takes hold of her wrists as they move towards the zipper of his jeans, instead lifting her arms above her. He breaks the kiss to pull up her top, using the opportunity to kiss the exposed flesh. He lifts her up slightly as she peels her pants and underpants off, letting his palms trace the curves the leather just clung to. She lowers her arms to come around his neck again, and he has a moment to wonder why before she has a leg between his and he's falling onto the bed with her on top.

The make-shift bed is not as comfortable as the one in Birkhoff's former place, but at least Birkhoff won't walk in on at inopportune moments here (and make jokes about Division agents in heat all season). Just as well, because Michael doesn't think he would be in much mood for stopping right now. Nikita neither, though if due to grief or anger or reassurances, he does not know. Maybe all three. Maybe more, as with him.

"How can you not know?" he whispers against her lips, not waiting for her reply before kissing her fiercely and still a touch angrily. She merely straightens up a bit, and as he follows her up, she pulls his shirt up and off. She's managed to unhook her own bra as well, her breasts pressing against his chest as he lowers his head to kiss her neck. Stray strands of hair tickle his skin slightly as he does, her back curving into him, two bodies trying to fit together.

Always some adjustment to make that happen, he knows, shifting her slightly before thrusting into her in one breath, holding still for a moment to let her adjust. But she simply digs her fingers into his hair and kisses him, her tongue thrusting into his mouth as he thrusts into her. He can't even tell their breaths apart as she keeps kissing him, and the heat of their bodies seem to transfer so much across it might as well be one.

It's still not close enough. Skin clinging to skin, lips glued to lips, bodies linked. It's not close enough, and he presses his forehead hard against hers. Wants to be in her mind too, make her see herself as he does, because God knows he could never look away from her.

Maybe then she'd finally trust herself to know how he feels. How she is loved. How she's Nikita and he's Michael and whatever else they might face, they always have that.

He has to believe that.

II

Michael has always been able to love. His country. His wife. His daughter. Their memory. Nikita. The memory of Nikita. Nikita again.

He loves as strongly as his heart beats, caring to the point of dedicating his life. To being a good husband and father. To revenge. To redemption. To Nikita.

That's the thing, really. Michael has always been able to love. Being loved – now that's been a long time since he let himself.

II

In the morning, Nikita wakes to Michael's arms still around her, his forehead pressed against hers. He looks tense, even in sleep, and she knows that won't go away. He loves her. He also wants to love his son, and she doesn't want him to ever feel like he has to make a choice. Even if it means she might have to make it for him.

He still doesn't know how much pain she can take, and is willing to. Still doesn't have an idea how much _he_ means to _her_.

She extracts herself carefully, putting on his shirt as the first she finds, and finding his open eyes looking at her as she straightens.

"I have to go see Ryan's mother," she tells him.

"I know," he says, and she wonders if he does. Maybe. Sometimes she wonders if he does know her better than she knows herself, as she thinks she might know him better than he knows himself sometimes.

"Nikita, I..." he starts, then seems to falter. "Be careful."

She leans down, watching how he looks at her, feeling her heart ache as she caresses her face with her gaze.

"How can _you_ not know?" she whispers fiercely, not waiting for his reply before kissing him; he leans into it for just a moment before she pulls away and walks away.

He will be there when she comes back, she knows. That, that she does know.

II

Michael and Nikita. Loving is not the problem. Never was with them. They've always had more than enough for each other.

Nikita loves, and tries to protect those she loves by taking it all herself, even when it costs her. Michael loves, and tries to protect those he loves by being there for them, even when it costs him.

Being loved, that's the thing. It means someone else loves you, and how they love may not be how you love. It may not show itself in the same ways, it may anger you, you may not know it at first... Being loved, that's the thing. It's not the same as loving.

Michael loves Nikita, and Nikita loves Michael. They're still getting used to, to know, being loved by each other – and how to live with it.

FIN


End file.
